So fatiqued Tuesday-Greens
Don't pick the salad going mad
army of turtles graveyard
sea shifts
All hurdles Wednesday
Go push/pull//lift
A drift to the draft beer
        "Oceania"
Turtles tuck in those girdles

Prima- Donna
Hearts all crumbled shells
Solar sailing slow as hell
That turtle meeting to
please him?
He hurts the turtles feeling
The Tortoise shell is healing

Taking it like the softshell
  You were homesick
The turtle stamp be quick
Muscles in the hardshell
    "Trump"
Shuck a clam shell slow as
molasses

Going to masses in her
turtle soup glasses

An action potential I lack

A chord progression

Make it come back

Busted strings

Hardshell case

Talent that went to waste

On this cold afternoon,  T.V.
Has ****** & Daytona.  You
And I are close enough you could
Come over, yet I don't guess you
Think that's a good idea, nor
Do  I, but thinking isn't all
We do.  We've lost our instinct
And our earthly home, companion,
Lost the rhythm of the slow dance.
I'm not stopping, not this evening
Or tomorrow, will yet present
Myself, still so lightly adorned
That I have said nothing, nothing
At all by my scant appearance.
Things don't happen for a reason,
Not one we don't invent.  Free will
Is out of fashion.  All the new
Philosophers agree on that,
Though fundamentalists dispute
Among themselves such hardshell creed.
I long to taste your skin again.
Come give me time, bring everything.

The new firehouse  stands where the old
Hardshell church used to be stationed,
and across the road new houses
have replaced the once fallow field
where the Methodist tent meeting
took place when I was twelve years old,
accountable for my wanton
gaze, at the cheeks exposed by shorts
that would not have been allowed on
Sunday morning this Friday night,
if you took the freewill doctrine
unpopular now in circles
philosophical,  canted like
the hooks we used to turn sawlogs
on the carriage where I offbeared
in the summer and after school,
saving cash I would one day use
to court those long-legged ladies.